


love like winter

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Introspection, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots of a partnership, a friendship and something which, from anyone else, would be called a relationship.</p>
<p>"What Napoleon knows, what Napoleon forgot, was that the best cons happen when the mark walks into the trap completely of his volition. What he never realized of course, was that it’s possible to be the mark and the grifter all the same time, that sometimes the best cons are not actually cons at all, which means that it’s impossible to walk away."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lips to the sculptures

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into this fandom! Someone help me please, I'm such trash for these two.

~*~

Puzzles are something with which Napoleon Solo is intimately acquainted. 

He adores them, from the crosswords in several different languages littered throughout Europe, to picturing the wiring of different security systems, to studying the different components of his newfound partner. 

For Illya Kuryakin is a puzzle, no doubt about it. 

The Russian speaks to Gaby, soft enough so that Napoleon can’t hear. A swift, half-smile crosses Gaby’s lips as she replies. Over the top of his newspaper Napoleon watches: when he’s around her Illya moves like he’s underwater—the swift efficiency of those limbs somehow muted into something almost awkward. Sitting here right now, if he didn’t know it for certain, Napoleon would have trouble believing that this is the same agent who chased down a speeding car in Berlin, who dodged four rounds of bullets, who threw a damn motorcycle. 

A puzzle and Napoleon’s mind loves nothing more than a puzzle, loves anything which keeps him entertained, keeps adding to its complexity. And Illya delights him in this respect: whenever Napoleon thinks that he’s reached the very end there’s always another twist and turn, always another stone to be unturned. 

In the simplest form, what he’s left with are a series of contradictions. 

The ruthless, relentless agent, eyes flashing ice-cold blue in a basement as he watches a man burn to death, knife flickering through his fingers as blood cascades over his palms, an unforgiving arm clenched around Napoleon’s throat. 

The hesitant, fumbling man who is undone at a flick of Gaby’s skirt, the soft quick smile on a balcony, the careful, almost gentle way he handles them both when they’ve been injured, the stark vulnerability in his eyes as Napoleon tosses the watch to him.   
Does the agent soften his sharp edges and roll himself in the cloak of a civilian? Or does the man assume the harsh exterior and only break out of it occasionally? 

The truth, Napoleon suspects, is as always, both of those and neither, all at the same time. 

~*~

Contradictions, as stark as ancient Greek theater masks. 

Yells echo through the warehouse and the distinctive sound of guns cocking clicks ominously all around them. Napoleon searches for their simple exit and curses silently when he sees the three indistinct shapes blocking the door. Next to him Illya stands, so close that Napoleon can feel the hard press of his body as he turns a slow circle, absorbing their situation with only a moment’s deliberation. 

The gun appears in Illya’s hand, effortlessly as always, and Napoleon considers it an insult to his professionalism that he can never quite catch the whole motion. In another life the Red Peril would have been a good thief, he ruefully thinks, before a single gunshot brings that trail of thought to a grinding halt. 

“You have blueprints?” Illya asks, the words clenched through his teeth. His accent always thickens whenever they’re in a stressful situation, which is to say, about three to five times a day. Going by his impromptu scale Napoleon judges that Peril isn’t feeling too worried: the only victims so far have been English articles. Not like that time in Morocco when Napoleon had a knife wound and even Illya’s Russian was incomprehensible.

“Of course,” Napoleon answers smoothly, taking the opportunity to wave said blueprints in front of Illya’s face, before producing his own weapon. He takes a spot behind Illya—to guard Peril’s back but also because when facing down a dozen highly trained, personal guards what better to hide behind than an entire wall of angry Russian? “I’m hurt that you would think otherwise.” 

With infuriating predictability, Illya ignores him, focusing instead down the sight of his pistol. “You go,” he says, looking down the sight and firing once. Through the pops of gunfire the faint sound of a body hitting the floor is still unmistakable. “I will take care of this.”

A renewed hail of gunfire sounds and they both dart behind a passably sturdy wall. “Somehow,” Napoleon replies, squeezing off a few rounds himself, “that course of action doesn’t strike me as the best plan. Two guns being better than one in this situation and all that.”  
Illya doesn’t have a chance to retort back, though Napoleon catches the clench of his jaw and knows that he desperately wants to. The opposing gunfire becomes more insistent and Illya bites off a curse in Russian before chancing a swift look around the wall. He receives a quick burst of gunfire for his trouble but he comes back with the information of “There are only nine guards now.”

“Ah, well then,” Napoleon breathes, wondering if it’s worth it to chance a look for himself. It’s not necessary—Illya could probably relate the positions of each guard down to precise latitude and longitude but he doesn’t want to be treated to the snide asides of ‘frail American courage’ for the foreseeable future. 

“No reinforcements?” Illya asks, reloading with tight efficiency. 

“No, Waverly should have all of them nicely held up—“Napoleon begins, before the rest of his sentence becomes moot as Illya, the damned idiot, stands up and fires off six precise rounds. 

And now Napoleon has to break from cover, not because Illya will be positively insufferable later if he doesn’t, but because he’s almost certain that Waverly and Gaby will want to know exactly how Comrade Kuryakin died. 

And at least it will be a spectacular story, as Illya fires off another two rounds while running, managing to fell another guard (Napoleon really needs to find out how the KGB manages its training because if all their agents are like Kuryakin then the Commies really have the Cold War in the bag). The two remaining guards seem properly terrified, if their increasingly erratic shooting is any indication, not that Napoleon can particularly blame them. One, the one on the left, is flustered enough to try to find a better position, all the while forgetting that there are two hunters in the room. The kickback from his gun is a familiar, reassuring jerk and now there’s only one guard, who, Napoleon suspects, is about to have a very bad day indeed. 

The final guard isn’t lacking in courage as he takes a stand and fires in Illya’s general direction. At least one bullet finds a hit, as the Russian’s left side stutters backwards for a split-second, but if anything, it seems to make Illya angrier. Three steps, accomplished within a heartbeat’s time, brings Illya too close and out of the gun’s effective range. Realization dawns too late as the guard throws the gun to the floor and makes a desperate bid for the knife at his belt. 

Illya moves so quickly that later when he’s writing his report, Napoleon honestly can’t quite recall the exact sequence of events. What he remembers is the clatter of the gun hitting the ground, the guard’s swift grunt, the sharp scent of copper hanging thick in the air, the crack of breaking bone just as loud as gunfire, and then the sudden silence only death brings. 

“Well,” Napoleon says, putting nonchalance into his voice with all the ease of an ill-fitted suit, “now that we’re done here?”  
Illya turns to him, swift and fluid, a predator scenting potential prey. His eyes still gleam wild, lip curled in a warning snarl. Napoleon stops, breathes, smiles. “Much as I’d love to admire your work Peril, I’m sure that the whole of the countryside heard this,” he gestures at the formerly pristine white tiles, now splashed with interesting patterns of crimson. “And I for one am not interested in being treated to a scolding for lingering too long. Come on Peril, before Gaby starts to worry.” 

At the sound of his nickname Illya blinks once, hard, and the blankness falls away from his face. Irritation, infinitely more reassuring, easily settles in its place, finding a home in the tiny wrinkle between Peril’s eyebrows and the perpetual downwards turn of his mouth. By the time Napoleon mentions Gaby’s name Illya’s gun is shoved back into his shoulder holster and he appraises the room with a workman’s eye. “Not a bad shot Cowboy,” he acknowledges, jerking his head towards a body.

“Peril handing out compliments,” Napoleon mutters as he follows Illya out of the warehouse to where their getaway car sits. “Blood loss must be worse than I thought.”

Later that night, as he nurses a scotch and watches Illya stitch up the graze along his upper arm, all to the soundtrack of Gaby yelling at them for taking pointless stupid risks Napoleon will think back on what he saw. He’s no stranger to killing and feels no particular remorse or delight in it but killing has always been an unsavory element of his career, rather like wearing off the rack suits: doable if necessary but gratefully avoided if possible. Illya kills like he was meant for it, a vicious invention loosed upon an unsuspecting world. 

~*~

Contradictions, twisting themselves into knots, a scab that Napoleon can’t help but pick at. 

Gaby mutters something insulting underneath her breath in German before throwing her hands up in the air. Illya stands in the middle of the room, his posture unrelenting and stiff, jaw clenching as he stares carefully at nothing. Napoleon pauses in hanging up his jacket and debates on the merits of asking what’s wrong versus pouring himself a rather large drink. 

Gaby takes the decision out of his hands by violently throwing herself down on a plush couch, snapping her fingers impatiently. Well-trained, Napoleon has a drink in her hand before he quite realizes what he’s doing and she takes an alarmingly large gulp. Doing his best impersonation of Soviet architecture, Illya hasn’t yet moved, the rapid tick of his jaw the only sign of his continued life. 

“Is it too late to demand a divorce?” Gaby asks, her sentence broken by another large sip. Napoleon pours himself a drink and sits down, getting the feeling that he’s walking into a minefield. 

“Trouble in paradise for the newlyweds?” Falling into predictable rhythms, Illya and Gaby are once again husband and wife, with their days spent schmoozing the mark. Napoleon’s day was spent lurking around the estate of one Louis Roche, a small-time French smuggler with dreams of breaking into the big-time world of arms dealing. Roche himself was small potatoes, something that Napoleon normally wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for but his contacts were…interesting to say the least. 

“Roche is throwing a ball tomorrow night for his wife’s birthday and we’ve been invited,” Gaby says, ignoring the small grunt from Illya. Napoleon’s eyes flick towards the Russian’s inscrutable back before focusing again on the tiny woman sitting across from him. “It’s a perfect opportunity for you to sneak into his office and copy his datebook, not to mention the fact that it might actually be a spot of fun—“  
Illya scoffs and even this sound is dripping with stiff, communist disapproval. “You go to the ball then. Have your fun.”

Sensing a little better what minefield he’s managed to wander into, Napoleon takes a long, considering drink. He directs his question, “Won’t Roche wonder where your adoring husband’s gotten himself off to?” to Gaby, knowing that being ignored hones the edge on Illya’s temper. 

“He’ll wonder that, as much as he’ll wonder why my adoring husband either can’t or won’t dance with me!” Gaby lobs the last statement at Illya’s back like a grenade. To Napoleon’s surprise, Illya actually flinches. 

Another drink as Napoleon rearranges the puzzle pieces until he thinks they make sense. “Peril, I can’t believe that somewhere in that frightening repertoire of training, no one thought to include a simple waltz.” 

“It was not considered an essential piece of knowledge.” Illya’s tone is frigid enough to coat the room in icicles but Napoleon presses on, with a predator’s unerring instinct for weakness.

“Well obviously it is now. You don’t want to cause a scene do you?” Illya’s head jerks sharply to the side to meet Napoleon’s eyes—why did he wander so close, close enough that all Illya has to do is take one step forward to wrap his fingers around Napoleon’s throat? “Did the lovely Ms. Teller’s tutelage not manage to sink through the Iron Curtain?” 

Illya’s jaw clenches so hard that Napoleon has to marvel at the strength of the man’s molars. “I will handle it,” he says, the old refrain sounding stale. 

“Somehow I don’t find that the most comforting assessment,” Napoleon decides. From a distance he can feel Gaby’s eyes on both him and Illya, flicking back and forth like she’s at Wimbledon. He sets his drink down, only half aware that he’s made a decision—most of his attention is focused on the wary, challenging glint in Illya’s eyes, the proud tilt of his head. “Come on. We’re going to add another skill into your file.” 

He holds out his left hand and Illya glares at it like it’s poison. “No.”

Napoleon doesn’t dignify that with a response, just quirks an eyebrow and waits. Illya’s upper lip lifts and he scowls like if he concentrates hard enough then he might just reduce Napoleon to ashes with the sheer force of his resentment. Napoleon comments, “Don’t look that way, your face will stick like that,” just to see the furious glint in Illya’s eyes. “This is your own fault you know. You could have had Gaby teach you this but you didn’t want that.” He grins, smug and provoking and can practically feel the heat of Illya’s anger wash over him. Gaby gets up to pour herself another drink. 

Illya shifts his weight, hands clenching at his side but not trembling, not twitching. His chest heaves once and he shifts to fully face Napoleon, looking like he’s about to be executed. He holds out his left hand towards Napoleon. “Tomorrow night, I will not be following, I will be leading. So, you will teach me how to lead.”

The battle won, Napoleon lets his smile spread across his face, honey-slow as he carefully places his right hand into Illya’s. “And on my waist, yes good,” he murmurs, fighting the urge to shiver as Illya’s large hand comes to rest in the nip of his waist. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he can feel Gaby’s eyes resting on them both. 

“And right foot forward and step,” Napoleon says, still in the same low voice he’s heard jockeys use to soothe their high-strung mounts. He talks Illya through the very basic steps of a very basic waltz, wincing as a heavy Russian boot finds its way onto his Italian leather shoes. He’s seen Illya flip and dodge, actually felt him twist mid-air like a damned acrobat so why is it that a simple series of steps have Peril so confounded?

Thankfully Gaby actually knows when to keep her mouth shut, thankfully Napoleon’s managed to keep a tight rein on his overactive mouth. Illya admits weaknesses and ignorance as often as he smiles, which is to say, not at all, and Napoleon has to wonder just how much this whole scene is costing the Russian. 

“And spin,” he says, hiding his wince as Illya executes a halting, awkward spin. Napoleon isn’t a prodigy when it comes to formal dance—the army had been a little lacking in those lessons but he at least knows enough not to embarrass himself. Illya’s lack of grace offends him, as does anything incongruous. 

“It’s a fight Peril.”The reasoning behind the statement is flimsy at best but Napoleon tries to follow that slender thread as best he can. 

“Americans have a strange way of thinking about dancing then.” Illya’s tone may sound bored but Napoleon wasn’t imagining that brief pressure on his hand, the jerk of Illya’s fingers which broadcast his interest clearer than words ever could. 

The thought begins to take solid form, the path becoming clearer even as Napoleon speaks. “Just think of it like a fight—fights have steps and motions. This is just a fight which repeats the same steps over and over again.”

And what do you know—it takes another rotation but Illya’s steps become surer and smoother, the grip on Napoleon’s hand eases and this time Illya dares to spin Napoleon on his own. If he weren’t sure that it would crack the Russian’s face in two, Napoleon would say that it’s a smile hinting across Illya’s face. 

“Good,” Gaby says, impressively managing to not slur her words, “at least we won’t look like complete idiots,” and just like that, the moment’s broken. Illya seems to remember that there are other people in the world and that he doesn’t quite like Napoleon. He steps away abruptly, Napoleon’s hand dropping down to his side. He tries not to notice the swift rush of air which moves to fill the empty space Illya left. 

Later, in his own room, Napoleon pours himself another drink and closes his eyes. His skin still prickles at the points where Illya touched him, his fingers still curved around the exact shape of Illya’s body. If he tries hard enough he can imagine that he’s floating along with the steps, Illya’s body finally understanding the rhythm until he dances the same way that he fights: savage and perfect. 

“That’s a little too much, I think,” Napoleon tells himself before unsteadily getting to his feet and tottering off to his bed. 

Try as he might though, he still can’t quite forget the pressure of Illya’s hands or erase the rasp of calluses off his palm. 

~*~

Tangled threads, twisted so badly that Napoleon can’t ever hope to find the ends in order to unravel the knot. 

Illya doesn’t like to lie. 

The misdirection is performed so smoothly that it takes Napoleon three months to notice and then it’s only because a mark asks Illya point-blank if he’s working for someone else. Too far away to do anything but seethe, Napoleon listens via his earpiece as Illya huffs and fumbles, his never swift loquaciousness disintegrating into half-syllable denials. “Just tell him no Peril,” he growls, aware that Illya can’t hear him. Not for the first time he wishes that he could sometimes take control of Illya’s body, just for a second, slide into the empty spaces where charm and social skills exist in normal people. 

Through dumb luck and a good portion of stupidity on the mark’s part, Illya stammers his way out of having his cover blown but it’s a near miss, too close, and Napoleon doesn’t fully relax until they’re all a country away in a secluded safehouse. 

The moment they arrived Gaby took the biggest bedroom, pointedly shutting the door behind her. Napoleon took the other bedroom, leaving Illya the couch, a fact that he’s meanly pleased with. Illya, typically, doesn’t complain, just takes a pillow and blanket from Napoleon’s bed and stretches out on the too short couch. Were it anyone else, the disembodied feet dangling over the edge would look comical. Illya somehow manages to turn them into a threat. 

Napoleon can’t sleep. He tosses and turns on the lumpy mattress, the thin scratchy sheets irritating his skin. His mind keeps on replaying through Illya’s choked replies and irritation rises within him—no matter how much Napoleon says otherwise Illya isn’t incompetent and for him to blow an operation on a fairly obvious question…

Realizing that sleep isn’t going to come easily, if at all, Napoleon gets out of bed and pads towards the woefully under stocked kitchen. The floor is cold, even though the thick fabric of his socks and he clutches his dressing robe tighter around him to compensate. His way into the sitting room is eased by the fact that there’s a single lamp alight, throwing Illya’s face into harsh shadows. 

Napoleon stops to look at him, almost fully dressed—his boots are still on for Chrissake. Illya doesn’t afford him the same courtesy, though he stops turning pages in the small paperback he’s reading. It’s a long second before Napoleon can think of a coherent remark cutting enough to deliver. When he finally finds one, it’s not nearly as scathing as he’d like it to be. 

“Interesting conversation you had with Ribbani,” he finally settles, coming at the issue sideways, always. 

Illya doesn’t look up from his book but the line between his eyebrows deepens and his ever-present scowl hardens. “Or could you even call it a conversation?” Napoleon continues, fueled by his constant need to needle, to poke and prod and pull until he gets some sort of reaction, damned if it’s the one that he wants or not. Illya’s finger rubs against the binding of the book, settling into a specific, stilted rhythm. “Mostly what it sounded like was you expertly stuttering and completely failing to do even the simplest part of your job.”

His eye doesn’t catch the moment when Illya goes from reclining to motion, only knows that it’s happened when the Russian’s hand is on his chest, solid, inescapable pressure pushing him backwards until he collides with a wall. Several pictures on the wall rattle ominously with the impact and Napoleon’s head will ache later but for now he pays attention to the more immediate threat: Illya’s fingers, twitching against his clavicle like there’s nothing they would love to do more than wrap around his throat. 

Napoleon has never been awed by danger like he should be, has always wanted to push the limit just that little bit further. “I thought that even your verbal skills would have been enough for the part but apparently I was wrong.”

This time he has ample opportunity to feel Illya move, his large hand sliding slowly up to his neck, all the more threatening for the fact that he knows exactly what’s coming. Illya squeezes in incremental amounts, letting Napoleon feel every single second. In anyone else, he would call it a caress. Maybe that’s what Illya calls it too, this violence that seems so intimate. 

“We got the files we needed,” Illya hisses, eyes gleaming in the half-light. “Ribbani was arrested and no one was shot. Better than most of your missions have been,” and he might have a point there but damned if Napoleon is going to say anything. Not that he could: by now Illya’s fingers have eliminated anything but the most strained breaths from escaping his throat. “So I fail to see what, exactly, you have a problem with.”

“Other than ending a sentence in a preposition,” and that wasn’t a good answer, not by a long shot, as Illya’s hand tightens around his throat, fingers pressing into the delicate skin just at the hinge of his jaw. A strangled noise escapes Napoleon and later he’ll be embarrassed but for now it only helps his cause. Illya blinks twice, hard, and then glances at his fingers, mildly perplexed. The immediate pressure disappears and Napoleon has enough room to drag in a ragged breath. 

“Go back to bed Cowboy,” Illya says, terrible gentleness in his voice, the kind of peace found in the hurricane’s eye. 

The fingers disappear from his throat, leaving only red marks and a memory of pressure and for once, Napoleon listens. He straightens the collar of his dressing gown and walks back to the bedroom, making sure that each step is carefully measured with just a hint of insolence. Behind him, Illya stands, not even a whisper of fabric to say that he’s moved and Napoleon feels the weight of his stare pushing down on his shoulders. Careful as lifting a Monet, he closes the bedroom door behind him. 

Even though Illya’s not watching he keeps the same steady, measured pace as he divests himself of the gown and crawls back between the cooled sheets. He props the pillows up so that he can recline more comfortably, now surer than ever that sleep won’t come to him tonight. Instead of trying, he throws all the pieces on the table and examines them. 

Illya’s anger at Gaby’s betrayal, his rage when Napoleon had the disc. The not so subtle roll of his eyes when Napoleon glad-handed and smooth-talked his way into rooms he had no business being in. The careful, deliberate words he chooses which slide oil-slick past the truth. More obvious, the way that Illya never can settle into a cover, not the way that Napoleon or Gaby can. 

Napoleon rearranges the pieces as many times as he can and comes to the same conclusion every time: Illya Kuryakin does not like lying. 

And therefore, by simple progression, does not like liars. 

Napoleon Solo is a liar, through and through.

It’s such a simple facet of his life, something as involuntary as breathing. He doesn’t think that he could change it, even if he tried, and so Napoleon doesn’t try, not even a little bit.

 

~*~

The separate threads of their lives, woven together in some twisted loom. 

Four months working together and though Napoleon will never say it aloud, he can’t deny that this farce of a team actually manages to mesh together quite nicely. Contrary to what he might have thought there’s a certain comfort in knowing that someone’s looking over his shoulder, especially when timely intervention manages to pop him out of a few uncomfortable spots. 

Not that he’ll admit it. 

“I was fine, seriously, do you need to call down the airborne division for one little guard?” Napoleon mutters as he steals through the sparsely decorated gardens. In front of him Illya declines to respond, focusing instead on the path ahead of them, gun already drawn. His customary black cap hides the shock of blond hair and his steps are almost as quiet as Napoleon’s as he moves through the loose gravel. 

And it had been a fairly simple break-in, through the window and into the office, find the safe, crack the safe, pictures of the papers within and out. It would have been textbook perfect, except for the unplanned rotation in guards which apparently no one had predicted. Napoleon had just been calculating his various exit routes when all of a sudden an alarm blared but from the other side of the estate. From there, finding an annoyed, unimpressed Illya waiting for him had not been a huge surprise. 

Illya doesn’t speak until he deems the danger past and even then all he says is a brusque “Gaby is coming for us.” It’s hard to have a meaningful conversation with a wall so they wait in tense silence until Gaby trundles up to them several minutes later, driving a car that most certainly was not covered underneath U.N.C.L.E.’s budget. 

Illya takes the passenger seat and so Napoleon folds himself into the back seat. His inane chatter fades underneath the combined weight of Illya’s and Gaby’s indifference and so the ride back to the hotel is spent in vague tension. Mostly, Napoleon thinks about the snifter of scotch waiting for him in his room as well as the unadulterated pleasure of a lengthy, warm shower. 

When he finally emerges, scrubbed clean from the grit and exhaustion of the mission, it’s not a huge surprise to find Illya in the sitting room. Being constantly on the road and constantly in each other’s back pockets leads to a inevitable mingling of the personal and professional, to the point where Napoleon automatically plans to have some form of company in his room. And though he’ll never admit it, sometimes it’s nice, being able to relax while Gaby chatters on about the newest fashion out of Milan while Illya hunches over his chessboard, never paying them a moment’s attention but still riveted to their conversation. 

“Drink?” Napoleon asks, pouring himself one. Illya shakes his head shortly, the offering and refusal just another ritual to complete. 

The silence between them is as comfortable as it could possibly hope to be. Illya’s never much for inane conversation and even Napoleon eventually becomes tired of the sound of his own voice. Besides, and this is another thought he’ll take to his grave, there’s something oddly comforting about having an audience and yet not having to perform, to just—be—in someone else’s presence. If Peril has any thoughts about Napoleon’s perusal of the paper or his dedication to dime-store paperbacks, then he thankfully keeps them to himself. 

Out of genuine interest Napoleon asks “Gaby occupied?” Normally if the job went decently well she’s there with them and tonight her absence is notable.

Illya shrugs in his particular way—not exactly a lifting of the shoulders but more the impression of shoulders lifting, a sort of all-body motion. “She received a call from Waverly,” he says, squinting at the board. 

Napoleon hums, watching Illya’s fingers float above the pieces. He’s never seen the man play anyone else except himself but he’s read his dossier and knows that a ranking that high isn’t cultivated in solitary play. An idea blooms in the back of his mind and he leans over, tapping the board with his index finger. “Fancy a game?” 

Illya jerks, the motion so unexpected that Napoleon blinks to be sure he’s not hallucinating. Illya catalogs his environment, obsession bordering on paranoia, and Napoleon can’t ever recall catching him unawares. Something raw and startled flashes across Illya’s face, there and gone in a breath before his features flick back into their impassive scowl. 

“No,” he says shortly, his limbs snapping back into their customary tension, spine straightening as he sits back into chair, “I think not.” 

Years of experience make it almost impossible for Napoleon’s expression to flicker, even for a second. “Suit yourself,” he says, watching Illya’s eyes flick around the room (searching for escape routes his mind helpfully supplies) before fixating on a point just left of Napoleon’s face. 

It’s not surprising that Illya decides to head for the door shortly afterwards. Tactical retreat is after all, a classic soldier’s maneuver and Kuryakin is smart enough to know a stalemate when he sees one. 

What is surprising is the flare of hurt twisting in his chest as he watches the door close, as he glances down at the abandoned chess board.   
It’s gone just as quickly as it arrived, nothing more than a blip on the radar screen if it weren’t so unprecedented. 

What Napoleon knows, what Napoleon forgot, was that the best cons happen when the mark walks into the trap completely of his volition. What he never realized of course, was that it’s possible to be the mark and the grifter all the same time, that sometimes the best cons are not actually cons at all, which means that it’s impossible to walk away. 

~*~

Seven months in and it’s not the worst Napoleon’s ever been hurt on the job but he’s had better days. Two cracked ribs, split lip, fractured wrist and bruises up and down his legs and torso, all courtesy of a mark that was just a little too suspicious. He’s felt better after the end of a job but then the U.N.C.L.E. medics give him some unholy concoction of drugs—“to ease the pain” they said with their too-soothing voices—and Napoleon has _not_ felt better after a job because right now—right now—

“Do you think it’s weird how my hands just—Just look at them Peril.” He waves his hand in front of Kuryakin, who is infuriatingly stoic and unimpressed with the sluggish wiggling of Napoleon’s fingers. 

The hotel bathroom lights dance in front of his eyes in blurred smears. Underneath him the toilet seat is steady and solid, providing a sharp contrast to the rest of the world, which seems content to spin unpredictably. Illya looms next to him and Napoleon can practically feel the frown directed at the top of his head.

From somewhere around his shoulder Gaby says, “After we’re done here, put him to bed before he hurts himself.”Napoleon tries to look at her but a hard push from her finger to his temple cures him of that idea. “Eyes forward, otherwise the stitches will be uneven.” Napoleon does as she says but not without an eyeroll which honestly turns the room upside down for a brief moment. He sways before being steadied by a large hand splayed across his chest.

His heartbeat thuds reassuringly against the hand keeping him upright. “Did they give him too much?” Illya frowns and why is he always frowning? Stupid to frown that much. He’s going to have wrinkles all over his forehead by the time he’s forty. 

“Well, we will see if I live that long,” Illya says and Napoleon stares at him, nonplussed. Did he really say that aloud? 

The prick and tug of skin is a familiar sensation but it’s strangely muted, like he’s feeling someone’s touch through several layers of clothes. “Done.” Gaby stands and rinses her hands off in the sink. The white porcelain takes on a light pink and Napoleon realizes, with some disinterest, that it’s his blood on her hands. 

“Please, don’t call me,” Gaby says, picking up her coat from the couch. “I need a drink. Or several.” 

“You’re leaving?” Napoleon wishes that he was in a state where he could better appreciate the slight edge to Illya’s voice—almost indistinguishable to anyone else but reeking of hysteria to someone accustomed to the Russian’s normal communication of grunts and growls. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

Gaby never stops her march towards the door, heedless of the giant following in her wake. “I told you. Put him to bed and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Let him sleep it off. They said he’ll be fine by morning.” The door slams behind her with ominous finality and Napoleon grins as Illya turns back to him. 

His face hurts from smiling this determinedly but he can’t stop, not when Illya still looks so—well it looks like he’s caught between being mad and terrified and the overall effect is oddly disarming. Without his permission, Napoleon’s smile changes, his facial muscles relaxing his deliberately provoking grin into something involuntary and sloppy. Warmth, sincere and terrifying, floods through him as Illya stands next to him, looking down at him with his scowling version of concern. 

The moment breaks when Peril lifts him off the toilet and steers him towards the bedroom with one hand between his shoulderblades and the clipped order of “Bed.” Napoleon stumbles and staggers, protesting all the while because that’s really, that’s just not fun at all—Napoleon doesn’t know quite what he wants to do—dissolving into a puddle on the couch sounds like a marvelous idea—but bed doesn’t enter into any of his plans. He tries to protest that to Kuryakin, who is really just insufferable, because all he gets for his trouble is a shove which sends him sprawling face-first into the mattress. 

“Sleep. Right now you are more obnoxious than usual.” There might be a hint of truth in there somewhere and Napoleon would love to agree but he’s slowly smothering in the sheets. 

The world tilts on its axis and Napoleon feels like he’s floating, weightless, like he could just drift off the face of the earth—and then he’s back on the mattress, this time looking up at Kuryakin’s face. “Do you know,” Napoleon says conversationally, “I’m still quite pleased to see you.” 

Illya’s face— _twitches_ —for lack of a better word, rearranges itself into something unfamiliar and not unpleasant. “Sleep,” he repeats, all gruffness and growl, and shuts the bedroom door behind him when he leaves. 

\---

When Napoleon wakes it’s still dark. His eyes are too bleary to read the clock but he can guess that time is balanced on the precarious edge between late night and early morning. His limbs still feel like jelly but his mouth feels as dry as though he’s been swallowing sand. His legs, while still wobbly, are enough to support him out of bed and to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Illya is still awake. Napoleon is a little taken aback at the gun pointed at him for a swift second before it disappears. Illya at least has the good grace to look abashed at being caught unawares as he sets the gun down on the table next to his board. “Cowboy.” Illya’s brow furrows. “You should still be asleep.”

“Just thirsty Peril.” Napoleon manages what he thinks is a very dignified walk under the circumstances, with only a minimum of stumbling. Illya, of course, has his objections and manages to seat him on the couch with one push on his uninjured shoulder. Napoleon agreeably flops, legs splaying out inelegantly. 

“Stay.” After a moment, when it seems clear that Napoleon will actually follow orders, Illya turns. The blessed sound of water hitting a glass reaches Napoleon’s ears and when Illya actually hands him the glass, cool to his skin, Napoleon thinks that he could hug him. 

“Next time I don’t care if my damn arm is off, I’m not letting them shoot me up,” Napoleon promises, his head lolling back listlessly against the couch. Illya sits down on the chair opposite. “This is—People go to opium dens to feel like this and here UNCLE is just giving it out for free.”

“Yes.” There’s no mistaking the heavy mockery in Illya’s voice. “Free. All you had to do was break ribs and almost kill yourself. Opium den would have been easier.”

“Cracked ribs, Peril, cracked not broken,” is his single rejoinder and as far as comebacks go, he’s had better. In lieu of winning a verbal battle, Napoleon settles for glaring at Illya through slitted eyes but he has the sinking suspicion that it’s not quite as intimidating as he hoped. Illya returns the glare but despite him being at full health the look is missing its usual vitriol. Instead of enraged Illya looks more…exasperated?

Napoleon’s mind flits back to earlier in the night, when he was on the floor of a warehouse, the grime rubbing into the creases of his suit. His chest felt like it was on fire and gathering the breath for a simple exhalation bacame a herculean task. Not the worst situation he’d been in, not by far, especially when he considered the fact that he was close to missing his check-in and Gaby and Illya would be looking for him—but still. Cracked ribs were never anything to laugh about. 

“Who are you working for?” Unattractive spittle flew from Marshall’s mouth and Napoleon couldn’t help but wince as he felt a drop fall to his cheek. Injuries were one thing but someone else’s saliva? Barbarian. 

It stood to reason that Napoleon couldn’t offer any information while Marshall’s foot was buried in his solar plexus, a fact which he would be more than willing to point out, if Marshall would only remove said foot. Eventually, the foot withdrew but it returned, landing directly onto an already cracked rib. A genuine grunt of pain escaped Napoleon and he started to hope more fervently that he’d already missed his check-in. 

“Who are you—“ Glass shattered and the rest of Marshall’s shrill scream died in the clatter. Napoleon rolled his aching body over and away from the shards of glass littering the floor. It only took a moment for Napoleon’s eyes to focus on the dark figure crouching directly underneath the window. Only a moment but already Illya was nothing more than a blur in motion, the harsh overhead lights glinting off his gun. Pain made his eyes unreliable, or maybe Illya was just that fast: Napoleon caught the burst of muzzle fire, heard the sound of knuckles splitting flesh, the low grunts which have become so familiar through the past months of listening to Illya’s fights. 

Minutes? Seconds? later, strong hands eased him upright and Napoleon went willingly, no matter the strain on his ribs from the new position. He must have made some noise of discomfort though, as Illya eased his grasp. “Doing all right Cowboy?” he asked, tilting Napoleon’s head to the side to better get a glimpse of the blood sluggishly trickling down past his temple. 

Napoleon tongued a split lip with vague disinterest. “Been worse.” Standing was a chore but he didn’t dare falter, not with Illya standing right there. It wasn’t that he thought that Illya wouldn’t catch him if he fell, more the fact that falling would earn him at least two years worth of _‘weak capitalist constitutions, can’t even handle broken ribs’_. 

Illya never moved more than an arm’s reach away, hovering like a giant Russian shadow. “Come,” was all he said once Napoleon was standing once more, “medics are waiting outside.” 

No, rage wasn’t a problem that Kuryakin had earlier in the night, Napoleon decides, sprawled back against the couch. It was written all over his face, features frozen into a rigor of anger. Now however—thankfully Illya isn’t wearing that soppy, ridiculous look that he gets whenever Gaby so much as enters a room. No, this is shrewd, soft around the edges and wholly unsettling. 

Maybe it’s that look which makes Napoleon spout out the first thing he can think of, just so that it’ll go away. Maybe it’s the punch-drunk sensation of relief which coursed through him at the sight of Illya, the sensation lingering like muscle memory, each time Illya saves him another imprint on a stunted sense of gratitude. Maybe, and this is the most likely of all, it’s the painkillers still coursing through his blood, turning the world foggy and making the impossible closer and more dangerous than ever. 

Before good sense has a chance to return, Napoleon asks the question which has lingered at the back of his mind ever since the Vinciguerra affair. “Why’d you do it?”

Illya blinks and for just a second his expression falters, mouth open in a tiny circle of surprise and eyes widening. Faster than Napoleon can comment though, the normal Iron Curtain of Illya’s expression descends, one quirked eyebrow the deviance from the norm. “You must be more specific.” There’s probably a warning in Kuryakin’s flat statement, if Napoleon would only care enough to hear it. 

“Uncle Rudi,” Napoleon continues, steamrolling past the point of no return, past the point where he and Kuryakin have silently agreed to do the gentlemanly thing which is to Not Ever Mention This. Illya’s posture has changed, regained the ramrod stiffness. A tiny rustle: one fingertip rubbing at the fabric of his pants. “I mean, you would have found Gaby with the ring, you didn’t need my help for that.” Illya stares, the weight of his gaze pinning Napoleon to the couch. 

“Why’d you come back?”

Silence follows the question, the awful, painful tomblike quiet after a bomb. Illya’s face is impassive and impossible, nothing so much as stone—impermeable and unreadable. Then, with strain, he shrugs. The gesture reminds Napoleon of ice shattering, of tectonic plates colliding and creating mountains. 

“You would rather I had not?” The words are right but the tone is wrong—too strained, too perfectly normal to be natural. The warning blares, loud and clear: _Do Not Disturb_ but Napoleon has years worth of experience in ignoring alarm systems. 

“Now, now Peril,” Napoleon says, trying to erase Illya’s scowl with a wave of his hand. He ends up settling for his hand flopping limply at the end of his wrist as he continues, “Let’s not read between the lines. All’s said and done and I think we can agree that it was a wholly happy conclusion. I’m just wondering about the thought process which led you there.” 

Illya’s jaw tightens and his fingers curl ever so slightly. For a second Napoleon thinks that he’s going to storm off and he hasn’t quite worked out whether or not he’s upset by that but then, with what looks like a huge force of effort, the tension bleeds out of Illya’s posture. A shrewd look settles onto the Russian’s face, reminding Napoleon that his partner is one of the best strategic minds in the game and you don’t make it to the top without having a good sense of when there’s blood in the water. 

“Why did you come back?” Illya asks, his accent rounding the question into something terribly gentle. “At Vinciguerra.” 

Question for a question: a stalling tactic and a fatal error in an interrogation. Napoleon doesn’t point any of this out. 

“I asked you first.” The bravado in his voice is mostly counterfeit, swimming against the memory of water flooding into a truck, of Illya’s body dense and unmoving against his, of the helpless shakes and shudders of the Russian as he started to breathe again, the hitherto impossible vulnerability of him as he hacked up water with only Napoleon’s arms around him to keep him afloat. 

Seconds tick past them, tense and loaded affairs where neither dares to breathe too hard for fear of setting off the avalanche. Napoleon wonders if Illya can remember it: the scent of burning hair, grotesque photographs laid with loving care into a macabre album, the soft clicks and hums of the banked menace of electricity. 

Another second, another heartbeat and still Napoleon waits. This might be a record for how long he’s managed to hold his tongue. He thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Sanders would be proud. He breathes in the potential of the moment, can taste it on the tip of his tongue; the way that, if the pieces fall just right then neither of them will ever be the same again. 

Illya clicks his tongue and the moment shatters, spark fizzling and dying before it could ever catch oxygen and burst into flame. Deliberately, Illya looks down at his chessboard. Napoleon feels as though Kuryakin’s ripped something vital out of him, something he didn’t know he wanted until it was gone. “Would have looked bad if I lost partner.” Illya shrugs. The gesture seems somehow unnatural on him, like a costume which doesn’t quite fit. “How can I be the KGB’s best if I cannot even babysit one American thief?” 

“Ah.” Napoleon huffs a quiet breath of laughter, drowning in the utter wrongness of it all. 

Illya Kuryakin does not lie but that does not mean that he tells the truth.

Napoleon laughs again, keeps the sound as free from bitterness as he can. “Well then. I think that I’m going to take my very inebriated self back to bed. Peril, always a pleasure.”

Illya blinks hard and jerks his head. When Napoleon stands up, vertigo makes the world go fuzzy for a second and he almost stumbles. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Illya start to move, a swift, abortive gesture pocketed away once Napoleon rights himself. Illya sits back down, dismissive and unconcerned and such a damn lie Napoleon wants to overturn his damn game. Some stupid instinct prods at Napoleon to wait, like maybe Illya will change his mind, maybe the tumblers will click into place and the safe doors will finally crack. All Illya says to him is a warning of “Don’t fall Cowboy. You’ll rip your stitches and Gaby will be displeased at having to fix them.” 

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Napoleon convivially agrees. He turns away, never once looking back. He’s sure if he did then he would meet that ice-blue gaze but his drugged and exhausted mind tires of games and half-truths paired with kind lies. Putting one foot in front of the other is no easier than it was twenty minutes ago but he never puts a foot wrong, too aware of Illya’s stare on his back. He closes the bedroom door behind him, the soft click of the latch explosive, and buries himself in the covers.

Thoughts chase themselves around his head as he shifts underneath the impersonal sheets, fevered, impractical things. He thinks about the nature of partnership, thinks about the exhilaration and terror that comes from working without a net and the giddy relief chasing itself through his body as Illya crashes through a window for him. He ponders the futility of debt, how the scales are never truly balanced, about the kind of personality who pays back a debt and the kind which calls them in and where he falls between them. He thinks of Illya, his flat words, weak excuses, wonders why he thought that Illya would actually give him a straight answer, wonders why it matters so much that he didn’t.

Most of all, he wonders why he asked the damn question at all.


	2. from years before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is eighteen, the first time he is asked to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a year, I found the time between the soul-crushing work of grad school, to jot this little thing out. Sorry that you waited for an age and a half!

 

~*~

The knight has always been Illya’s favorite piece.

He likes the queen for strength, the bishop for protection, the rook for reliability and there’s nothing quite like seizing his opponent’s piece with an overlooked pawn but he likes the knight. Moving across the board in threes, predictable and unexpected, it’s the piece he relies upon the most.

“You mustn’t grow too attached to a single piece Illya,” his father says, bending over his shoulder as Illya studies the board. With a single deft finger he pushes the white queen across squares, diagonally, until it nudges against Illya’s knight. “Check.”

A quick glance affirms there’s no escape. Illya tips his king over with ill humor but his father’s hand on his shoulder softens the loss. “Remember Illyusha,” his father tells him, face grave, “grow too attached and where will you be when that piece is taken from you?”

_Grow too attached…_

They take his father one otherwise unremarkable autumn morning. Illya is in the kitchen eating breakfast. His mother’s screams echo through the house long after the police have disappeared, leaving nothing but broken glass, shattered furniture and the growing, jagged realization that nothing will ever be the same again.

_Where will you be when that piece is taken from you?_

Illya still leads with his knights and when their sacrifice is called for, bitterly mourns their loss.

\---------

The flaw in the plan becomes immediately apparent.

By itself, the knight’s usefulness is radically diminished.

It is still a versatile piece and strong but in order to be used to full effectiveness it needs to be paired with another strong piece. The knight threatens and cuts off retreat while the bishop swoops in for the capture. Together, the pieces assure victory.

Napoleon Solo is not Illya’s first partner.

Most full-fledged KGB operatives work alone but during training their handlers would often combine their talents to see where an individual’s strength lay. Due more to an inherent hatred of incompetence and overabundance of efficiency more than any mutual concern for the other’s well-being, these partnerships were always successful.

Except for Illya’s.

In the files, all of his missions went down as completed successfully, which was not a complete lie: the main objective was always accomplished. But what was not recorded, and what fled through whispers, was how Comrade Kuryakin behaved when presented with a challenge in the form of another opinion.

Too stubborn, too violent, too _angry._ The few partnerships Illya was forced into ended poorly enough that eventually and without great fanfare, he was promoted to solo work. His effectiveness skyrocketed, and the whispers quieted and Illya settled, if not happily then at least comfortably, into his life.

And then it was all turned upside down.

Identical training and combined abhorrence of failure ensured that his fellow KGB agents were at least brutally competent. While not ideal, working with them was akin to working in a factory, where all the jobs were clearly delineated and all knew their place. Simple and efficient, two beings acting as little more than cogs in a machine.

Napoleon crouches opposite him, rifle poised easily on his shoulder. Illya trains his eyes down the sight of his own rifle, tension and anticipation thrilling through his body. On instinct, he glances down to meet Napoleon’s eyes, the blue glittering impossibly bright in the half-light of the compound. He waits for several beats and then nods his head.

With the ease of ballet dancers, they swing into position, Illya taking point and Napoleon smoothly turning to cover his back. Together they move swiftly into the heart of the compound, Napoleon a solid, reassurance at his back. Neither missteps. Napoleon shifts and Illya anticipates, moving in response to a need not yet articulated.

Before, in the KGB, it had at least been easy. Simple and efficient, the two separate parts carrying out their opposite duties.

Solo breathes and for a second Illya feels his chest expand with the inhale. He knows the American’s step as well as his own, knows how Solo shifts and tenses before firing, knows how his body will move to compensate for the rifle’s kick, knows the pleased, silent hum which thrills through both of them, pressed tight back to back.

This is not simple and efficient, Napoleon spinning and Illya rotating to take his place. This is not the Soviet factory churning out results, this is a conversation delivered through a glance and consensus reached through a blink. This is wild and visceral, feral joy ripping through Illya as he and Solo hurtle through the complex, the feeling of falling and being anchored at the same time.

Illya hates it.

Viciously and violently and most of all, he hates himself for enjoying it so much.

_Where will you be when that piece is taken from you?_

Partners are occasional necessities, something to be borne instead of anticipated. When Waverly commandeered them into UNCLE, Illya had some far-fetched notion that perhaps he would return to his solitary life, skulking through alleyways and looming in doorways, slipping through rooms as nothing more than a shadow, there and gone before the brain could even register fear.

Those hopes were soon dashed as Waverly seems to want nothing less than his destruction, in form of a permanent team with Solo and Teller. After Istanbul comes Belgrade, comes Lisbon in a seemingly endless series of convoluted plots and impersonal hotel rooms which all end up looking the same to Illya’s socialist eye. And all through the plane rides and car chases, the surveillance and the heist, are Solo and Teller.

The problem of course, is Solo. Teller is…Illya is not quite sure or not quite willing to admit his final decision when it comes to Gaby but he knows that Solo is insufferable. Has known it in fact, since the first time he saw the American in a checkpoint in East Berlin. Everything about him: the cocky tilt to his head, the expensive suit maintained like armor, the smug, knowing smile spread across his face like a challenge—it had all screamed anathema to Illya, scraped across his skin like sandpaper until he was raw and aching.

And yet.

He and Solo skid to a halt, listening to the rapid-fire voices of the guards as they fire off commands in Portuguese. Neither he nor Solo has a firm grasp of the language but Illya can guess at what they’re saying.

“Rush attack,” Solo murmurs, confirming Illya’s suspicions. “They want to overwhelm the intruders.”

“Good,” Illya grunts. He runs his hand over his belt and chest, more a habit than an actual weapons check. “That will leave hostages unprotected.”

“Doesn’t settle the fact of which one of us gets the delightful job of being bait.” Solo’s eyes tick upwards to Illya’s face. “Oh. Right.”

“Unless you want to volunteer,” Illya offers and is not surprised by Solo’s overly conciliatory wave and bow. Was there ever a question of which one would distract the guards? Solo, while not unsatisfactory in a fight, is nowhere near as capable as Illya of leading the guards on a merry chase.

“By all means Peril, I’m sure you’ll have great fun with them.” Illya rolls his shoulders as he mentally reviews the complex. It’s not a labyrinth so much as illogically conceived.

The feeling of Napoleon’s eyes on him skitters across his skin. Illya ignores it for as long as possible but, in this as in everything else concerning the American, eventually he breaks. “What,” he asks, voice flat as possible as his hands rove through the pistols stashed in various holsters across his body.

Solo shrugs, the carefree gesture almost lost to the thick darkness of the complex. “Two hours give you enough time?”

“Ha,” Illya snorts without mirth, readjusting his shoulder holster. “If it takes me two hours to deal with sub-par guards then I will transfer myself to CIA.”

“Very funny Peril.” Solo’s voice is dry but something about his tone still bothers Illya, some crucial piece of information he overlooked. “Just don’t get yourself murdered all right? The paperwork would be horrific.”

Something overlooked, something important but Illya can’t bother to worry about that now, not when he can hear the guards coming closer, their shouts insistent. “Please. We both know you would just leave it to Gaby.”

He doesn’t bother to look back at Solo as he slides into the darkness. Anything else the American has to say is unimportant, useless words to fill up time which they are wasting. The skin on the back of his neck still prickles and it’s a challenge to force his mind away from the lingering sensation. The sound of gunfire helps, the shock of the recoil traveling down his arm and reverberating through his chest.

By the time the guards’ torches light the hallways closest to him, Illya isn’t thinking of anything at all, other than the next turn, the next dodge. Even so, a void still seems to exist next to him, like he’s missing a heartbeat or the stereo sound of simultaneous footsteps echoing next to his.

```````

Illya doesn’t need a watch to know that his two hours have come and gone. He grits his teeth to stave off the uneasiness slicing through his fingertips, trying desperately to ignore the insistent reminder of his internal alarm. His watch weighs heavy on his wrist, each tick representing another second pushing against him.

Every step sends a fresh wave of pain coursing through his right calf and Illya can only hope that he reaches the hotel before the muscle gives out altogether. _Pride goeth before the fall_ he can remember someone telling him once and though Westerners never like to heed their own proverbs, it’s aggravatingly apt in this situation.

Finally, centuries later, the welcoming lights of the hotel beam down on the sidewalk in front of him. Habit and necessity both have Illya seeking the rear entry of the hotel and he limps his way in and up three flights of stairs. By the time he reaches his room he’s breathing more heavily than three flights of stairs warrants and his hand is shaking, from exhaustion instead of rage, as he tries to fit the key to the lock.

A shower and then he’ll call Cowboy. Or he’ll call Cowboy first and then shower. Or he’ll dress the wound first and then call Cowboy. Or he’ll collapse and then call—

“Well Peril, the CIA called and they’re willing and eager to review your application.”

The sluggish jerk of his hand towards his gun serves as a mark of just how deep his fatigue reaches. Illya forces his muscles to freeze, tamping down the instinctual urge to shoot as he waits for the adrenaline spike to subside. When the tingling in his fingers finally ceases, he releases his hold on the gun’s barrel and turns towards the sitting room.

Solo sprawls across the length of his couch, feet propped up on the arm. A tumbler dangles from his fingers and his hair has started to loosen from its severe coif of earlier in the day. An insufferably smug smile dances its way across his insufferably arrogant face and for a brief second, Illya regrets not shooting.

If he were in better shape and less fatigued, Illya might have a sound retort but now he’s just grateful that Solo doesn’t realize how much he startled him. If he did, Illya doesn’t think that he would ever hear the end of it.

“Seriously Peril, it’s been almost three and a half hours.” Illya grits his teeth and pointedly ignores Solo as he turns towards the bathroom. Maybe if he can disappear in there, behind locked doors, the American will take the ill-disguised hint and leave.

And perhaps Solo will then decide to quit his philandering and donate the considerable funds within his bank account to charity.

“Didn’t know you were counting,” he says instead, shrugging out of his jacket. He barely pauses as he flings it across the back of a chair, his shoulder holster soon following. Thoughtlessly, he tries to toe off his shoes and almost bites through his tongue to stifle the fiery lick of pain the action causes.

It’s too much to hope that Solo didn’t notice. For all Illya’s derogatory remarks about the man’s capabilities the thief is, if nothing else, extraordinarily observant. Ignoring the American’s stare, Illya walks to the bathroom as best he can. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle in anticipation because he knows that Solo can never see a weakness without pulling on that thread and unraveling it to see the beginning, uncaring of the destruction he leaves in his path.

One step and then another. Illya’s hand brushes the smooth brass of the doorknob before Solo’s voice cuts like a knife through the quiet. “I don’t mean to alarm you Peril but do you realize that you’re bleeding all over a fairly expensive carpet?”

Illya stonily stares at the bathroom door, escape so close and yet impossible. Turning around, he says, “UNCLE’s budget is enough to cover for a cleaning, I would imagine.”

“With you on staff I’m sure that they’ve dedicated a small nation’s GDP towards the cause,” Solo responds, words flurrying through the air like so many blades. He stands and walks towards Illya, smooth grace belying threat, and doesn’t stop until he stands less an arm’s reach away. “Putting aside concern for the décor, _why_ are you bleeding all over the carpet?”

Illya could almost fool himself that the look in those impossibly bright blue eyes is concern if he hadn’t seen Solo perform the exact same act for marks all over the globe. Still, such is the power of the American’s small moue of worry that Illya finds himself saying, “They had dogs,” through his gritted teeth.

“Surprised that their teeth managed to find a way through that thick skin.” His hands clench into fists at his side and even with only one and a half legs, Illya is still fairly convinced he would be able to put Solo in a decent chokehold. The idea disappears from his mind, chased away by the sharp sound of Solo’s hands clapping together in a disconcertingly business-like fashion.

“Pants off,” Solo orders.

It takes Illya’s shocked mind a moment to understand.

“No,” is his intelligent response.

“Well, if you want me to go fetch Gaby, I suppose I could do that.” Solo’s face twists into a mockery of distress and familiar irritation roils in Illya’s stomach. “Of course, she’s comforting the traumatized families, do you know that they had children in that tank, but I’m sure she’s more than willing to drag herself in here to deal with your slobbery bleeding leg.”

“Enough.” Illya knows better: Gaby’s talents are best used in dismantling small countries’ infrastructures, not in hand-holding, but that’s what he hates about Solo. Even though he knows it’s a lie, there’s still a small sliver of truth held in the words, enough that Illya turns back towards the bathroom.

Too sudden, too quick. His injured calf refuses to support his movements and for one horrifying second, Illya’s stomach lurches as gravity asserts its inescapable pull. One swift hand braced against the door stops the unthinkable but Illya can still feel Solo’s eyes on his back.

“If you could just have a seat,” Solo murmurs, oddly soft. It just leaves Illya wondering just when the knife will slide in and the anticipation turns him snappish.

“Whatever you might think, _Cowboy,”_ and here Illya puts as much derision as he possibly can into the nickname, “I do not need your help.”

He expects a sharp retort, a scathing summarization of the night’s events, maybe even for Solo to walk out, leave him alone to splatter Soviet blood over the marble tiles. What he doesn’t expect is for Solo to keep hold of his tongue and level him with a stare that’s all the more devastating for its mildness. For several long seconds Illya maintains his glare, until he can feel the blood winding its way down his calf to pool at his ankle and from there to splash to the floor. His leg throbs, pain coursing from the site of the bite up through his thigh, and suddenly Illya can’t remember why fighting against Solo is so important.

In the end the American always gets what he wants.

Solo apparently spies the resignation in the slump of Illya’s shoulders, the way he can suddenly feel the fight draining out of him. “Now that we’re in agreement.” He makes a sharp gesture, fingers waving up and down Illya’s body.

Close quarters in soldiers’ barracks and KGB training bred any embarrassment out of him a long time ago but there’s something about toeing off his shoes and sliding his belt through the loops of his pants that leaves Illya feeling oddly vulnerable. His trousers hit the ground with a heavy thump and Illya steps out of them, cold air rushing over his bare legs. He fights the urge to look over his shoulder for a hidden assailant as he lowers himself on top of the closed toilet lid.

Solo moves around the bathroom, gathering the hastily stored medical supplies, before taking a seat on the bathroom counter. Fastidious as always, he lays a towel over his thighs before looking at Illya expectantly. Illya stares blankly for a second too long and Solo rolls his eyes before patting his lap.

The dogs had been Rottweilers and Dobermans turned vicious by food deprivation and cruelty. Their teeth had torn into the unprotected flesh of his calf and left bleeding ravines when Illya had managed to kick himself free. And yet they weren’t the most dangerous part of his night. As he lifts his leg a faint tremor runs through Illya, not born from exertion.  Surely it’s just in his mind but the air is thick and humid in the tiny space and he has to devote considerable thought to the simple process of breathing, focusing on the inhale and exhale, clearing his mind of everything else but the semblance of apathy.

Solo’s fingers close around his ankle, the grip firm and unexpected. Startled back into the present, Illya kicks out. Their groans echo each other, though Illya suspects that his are the more genuine as pain reverberates through his leg, originating from the collision. After pinning him with a glare and a raised eyebrow, Solo’s fingers wrap around his ankle once more, surprisingly gentle as he rotates Illya’s leg to better examine his calf.

“Don’t kick the hand that heals you,” Solo mutters as his nimble fingers work on untying the rudimentary bandage Illya knotted around the wound. Nothing fancy, just a white rag now stained a dirty rust color. It hits the ground with a nauseating plop and Illya can agree with the sentiment expressed by Solo’s grimace of distaste. “Your field medicine leaves something to be desired.”

The acrid scent of disinfectant stings Illya’s nose and his skin screams from the sudden contact of the alcohol to his raw, bleeding skin. Instead of flinching, he breathes into the pain, allowing it to sing through his body until he can feel it in his chest, his fingertips. “Anything will do in an emergency,” he responds, proud that his voice doesn’t waver.

Solo’s fingers prod around the wound. One fingernail scrapes the edge of torn skin and white-hot, bright pain lances through Illya’s nerves. He grunts and glares through slitted eyes at Solo, who looks disingenuously back up at him.

“Who knew that Portuguese canines had such a taste for communist?”

“Not much taste,” Illya grits out, breathing steadily in, bringing the pain into his body until it becomes part of him. Inhale, pull it deeper, ignore Solo’s intense gaze on the torn flesh of his leg. “Communist too tough. Bites back. Soft American meat on the other hand…” He shrugs, the motion stiff and jerky.

Solo’s fingers squeeze his calf, the placement and pressure from his fingers too careful to be an accident. Caught by surprise, Illya hisses and hates Solo a little bit for his knowing little smirk, hates that anger is tempered by the slightest hint of razor-sharp amusement.

“We wouldn’t be good either.” Solo’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the blue irises sparkling even in the sickly yellow light. “Capitalism makes us bitter.” The joke is thrown at him like a challenge and Illya isn’t quite equipped to fight a war on this front, where the weapons twist and change from second to second but poor odds have never dissuaded him from a fight before.

“Western decadence.” Illya sniffs, fingers clenching tight on the edges of the counter as Solo finishes wiping off the bloody skin. “Meat would still be rich and tender.”

“You may have a point there Peril,” Solo murmurs, suddenly all business. He twists Illya’s leg slightly to the right and Illya feels the pull in his hip. Instincts ingrained into him from years of merciless training scream for him to pull away, fight the firm hold of Solo’s hands as he prods at the vulnerabilities of Illya’s body but they’re drowned out by the larger part of him, and he thoughtlessly relaxes and allows Napoleon to manipulate his leg.

“Well, the bad news is that your personality remains unaffected,” Napoleon mutters as he takes hold of the gauze. “I’m not going to be able to stitch these, they’re puncture wounds. So it looks like we get to do this on the daily for a while.” He smirks at Illya, a quick flash of teeth in the sickly yellow light, and Illya wonders why he didn’t kick him harder.

“Perhaps leg will fall off. Then your help will not be needed.”

“You know,” Napoleon drawls, lazy and unconcerned, never looking up from where he winds the gauze around Illya’s calf, “I can’t actually tell whether you’re looking forward to that or not.”

Illya hums, forcing himself to look away from Napoleon’s hands. Amazing how those fingers fly over any task, whether it be lock-picking or dressing a wound, and make it look effortless. Illya’s competence was won with sweat and blood, long hours and sleepless nights. Napoleon waltzes into skills easy as walking into a room. Illya would be envious if he thought it would do any good but begrudging Napoleon this is pointless. He might as well envy birds for flying.

“You will never know,” Illya says, breathing a silent sigh of relief as Napoleon finishes wrapping the bandage. “That is why I am superior agent. Much more mysterious.”

His knee creaks faintly as he slides his hand underneath the joint and lifts his leg off of Napoleon’s lap. After the other man’s warmth, the tile on the bathroom floor is freezing. Illya’s ankle misses the comfort of Napoleon’s lap but Illya wants nothing more than to escape the suddenly claustrophobic atmosphere.

Pride forces him to linger, as Illya can’t quite stomach the mental image of him limping at high speed out of the bathroom. Solo cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment as he bundles up the bloody gauze into a single pile. “I think that you can handle disposing of these,” Solo says as he deposits the pile into Illya’s arms. His fault for lingering overlong, Illya supposes, though there does seem to be some fairness to him burning the bandages. It is his blood after all and after the debacle in Barcelona they all agreed that medicinal debris should be burned.

“Fine,” Illya murmurs instead, suddenly too tired to argue or riposte. The wound in his leg still throbs and, worse than the pain, he can already feel the itch sinking underneath his skin. He waits until Napoleon opens the door and pushes past him, the door beckoning blessed escape.

He almost makes it out. Solo’s lilting voice stalls him, its cloying tones wrapping around his ankle. “Do try to take care of yourself Peril.” Illya stares at the door and thinks about the soft tap of pieces against the board, the rush and thrill of the capture, and the thudding finality of checkmate.

 

~~~~~

One night, Illya was in the middle of reenacting a famous match when his father joined him. Without words he set up the board, himself as white and Illya as black.

They played in silence while Illya suppressed his pleasure and glee: it had been a long time since he had seen his father outside of his study, and an even longer time since he had seen his father without deep worry lines carved into his brow. For months he had fallen asleep to noises of hushed whispers from his parent’s room but in the past week they seemed to have vanished, replaced only by a crushing silence.

Illya allowed himself to hope that it was over. That perhaps his mother would smile once more and his father would once again join them at the dinner table, would once again ask Illya how his schooling was progressing.

For now it was enough that his father was here.

Despite Illya’s prowess, his father was a vastly superior player and within short time he had Illya’s pieces pinned down and his king running across the chessboard. Frustrated, Illya tilted his head in search of a solution but could find none.

“You still favor your knight I see,” his father murmured as he moved a bishop across several squares.

Illya examined the movement and could find no reasoning behind it except to move a piece. “Remember what I told you Illya.”

“I do.” Illya doesn’t think that he could ever forget. That somewhere in his heart, all his father’s words are carved into his skin.

“Good. Good.” For a moment the worry lines returned and his father looked more like a memory but then Illya blinked and the mirage vanished.

Distressed, Illya randomly moved a rook, only to watch it be snatched up by his father’s queen. Illya realized the extent of his father’s movement the second his father murmured “Check” in his quiet voice.

Irritated, Illya flicked over his king and sat back in his chair. His father said nothing about his display of temper and chagrined, Illya swiftly sat up and helped his father to reassemble the pieces. “Another game I think. And this time, you will not allow your mind to wander, eh?”

Illya mumbled a quick assent and his father nodded, the slight grimace around his mouth smoothing. Their second game proceeded slowly, as each tried to outmaneuver the other. Halfway through his father replaced the bishop he had been toying with and glanced in Illya’s direction.

He could not catch his father’s full gaze, no matter how hard he tried. It seemed to him that as the night had lengthened, his father had sunk back into the shadows, his hard edges smudging in the firelight and the dim lamplight. His eyes were the only bright things about his face, mirror images of Illya’s as he leaned forward to examine the same bishop. “Chess is a thinking game,” he said, switching his attention to the queen. He picked up the piece and examined it from every angle, watching how the firelight glinted off of her hand-carved sides.

“It is a general’s game and it will teach you to question your reasoning. That is why you have learned, so that you can examine the flaws in your thought.” Illya nodded, unsure. “But, that gift is a double-edged sword. Because as you learn about your flaws, so does your opponent.” Finally, his father looked at him, blue eyes turned almost black, the lines in his face carved deep into his skin. “You must never play chess with an enemy, Illya, you must never give them the opportunity to discover what you will sacrifice and most importantly—what you will not.”

He stood abruptly, the board shaking in his departure. “I tire,” was his only explanation as he made his way towards the door. Beside Illya’s chair he paused, passing his calloused, work-work fingers over Illya’s hair, disturbing the fine strands. “You will remember, won’t you Illya?”

Illya murmured his assent, desperate to say anything to remove the heavy, weary tone from his father’s voice. The weight of his hand pressed down on Illya’s skull, his father’s powerful fingers pressing into his scalp. Then, as swiftly as it had descended, it was gone and Illya was left alone, studying the board.

\-----

Two days later, they came.

\------

Solo asks him for a game and, wholly unprepared for this eventuality, Illya refuses him.

Solo takes his rejection in stride, as he takes everything, be it propositions or torture, with a smile and a ready quip. But as he turns away Illya thinks that maybe he sees something in his liar’s eyes, a swift flash of something, disappearing like footprints in a blizzard.

Illya stares at his board, mind winding through possible solutions. Unbidden, his father’s voice curls around his ears, strong as it was almost twenty years ago.

It was right, Illya decides, judging whether or not to sacrifice a black rook in order to gain the center.

Because while Solo might not be an enemy he is certainly not a friend.

~*~

Another city, another despicable speck of humanity to pick apart.

This time they’re holed up in a filthy hostel just outside of Warsaw, awaiting a defector attempting to sell intelligence, including a blacklist of MI6 agents. The list of buyers is incomplete but Illya knows that the KGB is certainly amongst them. He can’t blink for seeing one of his ex-comrades skulking around the corner, ephemeral and fleeting as a mirage.

Here, in the gutters, far away from the rebuilt sections, scars from the war still linger, present in the scorch marks on buildings and the hunted, hungry gaze of the people. Here, he is too undeniably Russian and he feels the hatred of the gazes flung at his back like stones. Illya stays in the hotel as much as he can, cites surveillance and secrecy as the reason why he doesn’t venture out.

He hasn’t been outside in over four days.

The stained walls of the hotel press down on him as the eternal drip from the faucet burrows inside his brain. Here, in the slippery twists of time, when night becomes morning and the hours bleed together, Illya finds that he cannot sleep. Solo is out, doing whatever Americans do in Soviet satellite countries, while Gaby is most likely enjoying her bourgeois accommodations as she plays the naïve journalist. And Illya—Illya stares at his chessboard and finds himself horrifically uninterested.

A footstep creaks outside the door. Illya glances at the door, reaches beside him for his gun and tries to force his attention back to the game. Part of him almost wishes for an assassin, for an army, for anything to shatter this skull-numbing monotony. The key clicks in the lock, swift and sure.

The door opens and now there is no mistaking Solo’s tread, the soft pad of fine leather shoes across a filthy carpet. Out of spite, Illya keeps hold of his gun and doesn’t deign to greet him.

“Losing your touch?” Solo asks, sounding vaguely out of breath. Illya doesn’t ask and halfway convinces himself that he doesn’t care. “I could have been a horde of hitmen, right outside our door.”

Eyes fixed on the board, Illya haphazardly waves his gun in the air. A childish gesture to be sure, but oddly satisfying nonetheless. “You sound like one of your…what is…Buffalo,” he finishes, even though it’s not the least bit true. “Could hear you coming all the way down the hall.”

“Now Peril, we both know that’s not true.” Illya grits his teeth against Solo’s scolding tone and more intently focuses his eyes to the board, as though by sheer force of will he could make the American disappear. “And quite frankly, it’s a little insulting that you would even suggest it. Don’t push your bad mood off on me.”

Illya clenches his fist as his pulse begins to roar in his ears. Behind him he hears the familiar sound of ice clinking against glass, as Solo’s ever-present drink makes its appearance. Where Solo managed to find liquor to suit his tastes here in this forsaken hole is a mystery to Illya.

Without thinking of strategy, to stave off the impending tremors of his hand, Illya shoves a rook across the board. The soft click of wood striking wood does nothing to cover the sound of silk slipping through finely tailored shirts as Solo begins his long and oftentimes arduous process of disrobing. After being trapped in what feels like increasingly closer quarters with him, Illya knows more about the American’s personal habits then he ever wanted.

The rook now stands firmly in the queen’s path with no defenders. Illya’s lip curls as he examines the board, frustration welling up to his throat, almost to the breaking point as he thinks about the stares and hatred following him as he walked through the street, at the claustrophobic closeness of the dingy walls, at Solo’s smirk as he strides so comfortably over every hard-held tenet of Illya’s life—

“You’ll have check in five. Depending on which side you want to win. Definitely mate in seven though, no matter what.”

Illya’s hands jerk out towards the board—to cover it? To throw it at Solo’s smug face? Before he can act however, the words sink into his head. “How so?” he asks dumbly, eyes flicking over towards the pieces. Maps impose themselves over the small squares—queen takes rook, bishop moves to challenge, knight moves to defend, pawn moves to clear space—

“You don’t see it?” Solo hums, dismissive, and takes a noisy sip. “Been playing against yourself too long I suppose.”

Or queen takes rook, king retreats behind solid square rook, queen continues and threatens—

“Let me show you.” Before Illya can blink Solo is comfortably seated opposite him, one hand rotating the board towards him. He’s given himself white. Outrage howls and bangs against Illya’s skull but louder is the sweet siren’s song of competition, the glint of challenge reflected in Solo’s eyes.

“You do not play chess Cowboy. No real opportunity to cheat.”

Solo shrugs, seemingly unconcerned as Illya takes a pawn for no reason other than spite. “Any game can be cheated,” he says, pushing a bishop across the board.

It isn’t much of a contest. Solo’s playing style consists of occasional shrewd maneuvers punctuated by erratic choices. Though several of his moves leave Illya puzzling for minutes, it’s not victory which eludes him but understanding— _why_ would Solo move his bishop, one of his few remaining strong pieces, directly into the path of Illya’s queen?

Illya’s playing style consists of swift, sudden strikes and traps which only spring shut at the last second—merciless and brutal.

“Well, what do you know.” One eyebrow arches as Solo examines the neat triangle Illya managed to box him into. “It _was_ check in seven.”

“I knew it.” Taking great satisfaction in the gesture, Illya reaches across the board and flicks Solo’s king over. It’s unsportsmanlike to gloat over a fallen opponent but no one ever accused Illya of being particularly charitable in victory. “You are as hopeless at chess as you are at stealth. Admit it.”

“Never.” With typical flair Solo undoes his cufflinks and rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. His collar already gapes open, its button sacrificed after particularly nasty move on Illya’s part. “Us westerners resist defeat at every turn. Best two out of three.”

“I’ll take it easy on you. Perhaps this time you will even take a piece or two.”

“You know, arrogance is really quite an unflattering trait on you,” Napoleon chides as he shoves a pawn forward to start the game. “Save it for the professionals.”

“Hm. I could say the same about you right now.” Already Illya can pick out the flaws, his mind happily tripping down various paths—which would be better? A swift, ignominious defeat, trouncing Solo in less than six moves? Or drag it out, see if the American is savvy enough to take advantage of obvious openings?

“Funny.” Though Solo’s voice is dry, a shadow of amusement dances across Solo’s face, settling in a wry jerk of his lips—a gesture which, Illya is surprised to find, he mirrors back.

Solo is a quick study, has to be in their line of work, and his decisions, while still unpredictable enough to make Illya think, are slightly more well-informed. Still, Illya is relentlessly efficient and—

“Bad luck.” Solo sighs. This time he knocks over his king.

It’s still satisfying to watch.

“Three out of five.”

For the first time in two weeks, Illya falls asleep without the sound of his pulse thrumming in his ears and without choking on his own irritation and frustration.

 

~~~~~~~

 

He is eighteen, the first time he’s asked to kill.

Illya is no stranger to death. For the past three years it’s been his livelihood; his body more weapon than flesh and blood. He’s seen the bodies crumple through the end of his scope, heard the sound that an empty husk makes when it hits the ground, felt the kick of his gun reverberating through his body.

But this is different.

“He is a traitor.” The chill in Oleg’s voice has passed beyond steel, beyond the frozen wastelands of the gulags. “He has given Soviet secrets away to our enemies and planned to flee with even more knowledge.”

Illya sits, silent. Past experience has taught him that his input is less than valued. Oleg flips through several papers on his desk, examining the writing with disinterest. “There can be only one end to such people.”

Illya nods once, his jaw tight. The individual words wash over him even as the deeper meaning sinks into his bones. For a second he wants to protest but as he shifts the old scars lining his back pull and twinge, reminding him of the price of insubordination.

Oleg carelessly tosses a folded piece of paper across the desk. It flies towards Illya like a grenade and lands with the point facing right towards his chest. “Go to this address. Everything will be prepared.”

Illya never asks the details of the man’s crime, this Andrei Orlov. Knowing his name is almost too much.

He walks through the streets in a daze, snow caking on his boots as the wind whips past his cheeks. It cuts through his coat and sweater but he barely feels it. Though he keeps his eyes focused on the sidewalk, pedestrians scatter as he moves past them. Like herd animals scenting a wolf, they sense the aura of the KGB clinging to his expression, his stance, and they draw back from him. He doesn’t mind. If anyone touched him right now, Illya thinks that he might just shatter from the blow.

The house is unremarkable in every aspect. Illya walks up the steps and knocks out the passcode. His knuckles sting from contact and he has to stop himself from looking down to see if they’re bloodied. After an eternity the door swings open, revealing nothing but blackness and amidst it, a small, shriveled man.

His cold eyes look Illya up and down. Illya does not fidget underneath his scrutiny, allows his stature to speak for itself. He feels acutely, the weight of the pistol at his hip and pressed against his side.

The man’s head jerks, barely perceptible in the dim lighting. “Come,” he says. The KGB deals in brevity the way other agencies deal in paperwork. Illya shuts the door behind him, thinks about locking it. He doesn’t but the paranoia follows him through the hallway and down the stairs.

Far off, water drips in a continuous rhythm. Illya stares at the closed door, thinks about what’s behind it and then carefully thinks about anything else. A stranger’s heartbeat pounds against the walls, his breath threatening to topple the whole house. A sliver of paint curls away from the lock. Illya keeps his eyes trained on that and speaks to the imperfection.

“Weapon?”

The man steps in front of him and Illya can no longer see the door, can only see this small husk of a human. He looks halfway to dead already, waxy skin pulled tight over his skull. “No tovarisch.” Skeletal hands dotted with age spots gesture to a small table. Silver gleams on the table, sharp and threatening, and Illya cannot pull his eyes away from the light glinting off the curve of a scalpel blade.

Fog lifts from his vision and everything is painfully, exquisitely clear, down to the small stains on the blades, the imperfections in the pliers, the small drop of sweat beading on the man’s forehead. _Traitor._ The man is a traitor.

Glass breaking, his mother’s voice drowned out by the guttural shouts of other men, the small splashes of blood spattered over their kitchen floor. Red on white, like blood splashed over snow, still hot and steaming, like blood in Siberia. Like his father, forgotten except for his shame, _traitor,_ and then his son, standing in front of a table of knives and a traitor one room away from him.

Everything is so very clear to Illya. If he tries, he thinks that he could sink his fingernails into his moment and rip it in half. The knife gleams. In his mind’s eye, his father smiles, sad and weary, his eyes a faint shadow of what was to come.

“I see,” Illya says, his voice echoing strangely through his skull. Though his pulse thunders in his ears his hand is steady as he reaches out towards the scalpel. Traitor, son of a traitor, and his path has always led him to this, this one choice and this one man.

The doorknob is cool against his palm while the scalpel scorches a line against his skin. Even after he puts it down, Illya knows that he’ll still see its lingering imprint.

In the center of the room, underneath a single naked bulb, Orlov sits bound to a chair. A filthy gag obscures his mouth but his eyes are clear. Defiance shines in them but the fear is clearer as he focuses on Illya.

“Comrade Orlov.” Illya’s voice is steady, so very calm and cool, like snow falling on the ground, like the steady ticking of the watch on his wrist. “You have been found guilty of treason against the state.”

Nothing else needs to be said. Entering into a commitment with the Party is a lifelong endeavor and to betray that contract can only mean one thing. Illya says it anyway.

“The penalty for this is death.”

Comrade Orlov is no coward—behind the gag he is silent: no muffled cries for forgiveness and no tears of regret. Only his eyes betray him, as the fear glimmers stronger and stronger and he cannot stop himself from looking at Illya’s hands and behind him, where the other instruments lie in wait.

Illya closes the door, delicately, silently, carefully.

\---

Later, the other agent surveys the room. A pale tongue flicks out over his thin lips and his pupils widen as he takes in the sight.

Illya fights the urge to wipe his hands clean, concentrates instead of keeping his gaze steady and ignoring the reek of iron permeating the room. The man, the agent, takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly with a euphoric _ah_ and this, more than the stench of bowels evacuating, more than the choked gargles, more than the sight of red staining his vision, seeping into his hands, red, red, red—The soft exhalation, like arousal, like a spectator of the most salacious delights, turns Illya’s stomach.

Bile scorches his throat as he walks out of the house, craving the bite of clean air. Copper still lingers in his nose, so thick he can taste it on his tongue. Crimson, darkened to rust, clumps underneath his nails and in the whorls of his palms and fingerprints. His boots are sticky with gore and they leave imprints on the dusty floor as he walks towards the door.

Oleg stands in his way, unobtrusive and massive.

Illya waits in front of him, almost vibrating with the need to escape, but he still waits. Oleg’s eyes are unreadable as they sweep over him. Illya cannot bear it, cannot stand still while another man’s blood dries on his hands but he does, waits until Oleg speaks.

“Next time,” Illya’s heart sinks even as steel creeps into his spine because of course there would be a next time, of course, “you will take more care of yourself.” The lingering glance on his hands leaves no doubt as to what Oleg refers to.

Illya nods stiffly, the movement forced and painful. The walls press in and from the basement, the scent creeps up, curling ominously around his ankles. Illya thinks of the man, standing amidst blood and bodies, the blissful expression on his face. Thinks of his father’s study, the clean strong lines of it, the peace found in the solitude of books and architecture, the smallness of his body surrounded by his father.

“Kuryakin.” Oleg’s fingers close like vices around his wrist, thrusting his hand into his face. Scarlet stands out stark against his pale skin and once more, Illya tastes bile at the back of his throat. Oleg puts his hand in his face like Illya has the option of looking away.

“This is what you are. This is your purpose. Do you understand Kuryakin?”

The blood is drying on his hands and starting to flake off, revealing the rust-colored skin underneath. Red at the edges of his vision, pulse pounding like thunder in his ears, the feeling of another’s heartbeat stopping underneath his palms.

_This is what you are. This is your purpose._

“Yes,” Illya bites out, the marrow in his bones turning to steel, to snow, to something untouchable and far-away.

\-----

Underneath his knife, Alexander Vinciguerra’s flesh parts easily.

As the years have passed, Illya’s gotten better. No blood spills over his hands, sticky and warm. The scent is lost to the rain and Alexander’s clothes obscure all incriminating evidence. Were it not for the thin rivulet of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and the ungainly sprawl of his body upon the damp ground, Illya could almost fool himself into believing the Italian asleep.

He knows better, knows the slackening of muscles at the moment of death. Knows how pupils expand and the fogginess descending.

_This is what you are. This is your purpose._

A few feet away from Alexander’s body, Solo and Gaby lie bloody on the ground and Illya cannot feel guilt.

\-------

Gaby is missing.

Gaby is missing and every click of Illya’s watch feels like a blow.

Panic looks different when it’s diffused between the CIA and KGB but it’s still recognizable in Solo’s snappishness and Illya’s temper. Solo paces the length of the filthy warehouse, has not stopped pacing since Gaby missed her check-in almost an hour and a half ago.

Illya knows, intimately, the amount of damage which can be inflicted within a spare ten minutes, let alone ninety. He thinks of Gaby’s nimble fingers, her lithe grace, the unexpected thrill of her throaty laugh and a cold, deep place opens up within him. Here the pulse of his blood is not frantic but rather inescapable, like the pulsing of magma deep beneath the crust of the earth, the stillness preceding eruption.

Solo’s back is to him as he speaks into a portable phone. His words are muffled and indistinguishable but his tone is terse and shoulders tense. Their contacts were tapped within minutes of trying, all of them either unable or unwilling to help. Now, with his charm and skills rendered useless, the American is reduced to grasping at straws.

He does not yet understand what must be done.

Illya stares at a closed door, his thoughts back in the Moscow snow. Once more he breathes in the sharp tang of blood mixed with winter, feels the cold biting through his clothes and into his bones. Far away, Solo slams the receiver down and the echo ricochets into Illya’s skull.

He has always known that he would eventually end up back here again, at another door, another choice.

Except this time it is Gaby missing and Napoleon with the bright edge of panic in his eyes and it was never really a choice after all.

_This is what you are._

 “There’s nothing more that I can find out. All we have is that little toadie of Ramirez’s and he’s not saying anything.” The lack of polish in Napoleon’s voice is all the more evident for his strained effort to maintain it.

“He will talk.” The door is unremarkable, as doors always are—dark wood, chipped from hard use and age. It’s not thick—the man behind the door can probably hear every word, as Solo’s not making an effort to be subtle.

Napoleon scoffs. “Not that I’m getting any pleasure out of being right Peril but we don’t have a lot more tools in the box. I’ve thrown my considerable charm at him, you’ve been sufficiently looming and terrifying and none of it seems to work. He’s a dead end.” Napoleon’s shoulders droop and Illya suddenly, unexpectedly, pities him.

Napoleon might have taken to this life like a duck to water but he wasn’t created for it, not like Illya was. Paths which, for Illya, seem obvious and clear are, to Napoleon, not even charted yet.

For a moment Illya allows himself to want, with a fierce and scorching desire, to work alone once more. No partners to worry about, no bright blue eyes about to dim with the newfound knowledge of exactly the type of person who has been watching his back.

Illya presses it down, thinks of Gaby twisting the steering wheel, the delicate way she twirls a lit cigarette around her fingers. “He will talk,” is all he says, as he finds the leather case never too far from his side.

“Once again Peril. I admire your tenacity but I’m not sure what else you have…”

With a deft flick of Illya’s thumb, the case pops open and Napoleon’s voice trails off into silence. Any other time he would be perversely pleased at actually managing to shut the American up but now, in the face of scalpels and pliers, there is no room for such childishness, such humanity.

“You’re not…” Two in one day and Illya tries desperately to be pleased but all he can find is the stillness of Moscow streets at night, the whisper of breath out of a skeletal voyeur. “Peril. Kuryakin. You can’t…” Napoleon trails off for a third time as he starts to understand that yes, Illya can and Illya will.

After he takes inventory and finds everything present, even as he snaps the case shut and stands, Illya carefully avoids looking at Solo. Whatever is writ on his partner’s face—disgust, horror, pity, apathy—whatever is there, Illya doesn’t want to see it. Soft, he’s become so soft for these two.

The door looms in front of him, until it is all Illya can see. _This is what you are Kuryakin, this is your purpose…_ Anything that he might say dies before it’s ever realized. What is there to say? He walks towards the door, waiting for the crunch of snow underneath his feet, the creak of half-rotten wood instead of the cool cement of the warehouse. _What you will sacrifice and what you will not…_

A hand touches his elbow. Illya freezes as the touch burns through his jacket and sweater. Napoleon’s hand is firm. Not enough to hold him back. The unfathomable look on his partner’s face however—that would be enough.

But Gaby.

Napoleon’s hand falls away from his elbow and Illya forces his skin to forget the feel of fingertips against his skin, the solid reassurance of the American at his side. _What you will not…_ The door looms in front of him, same as it always has done and Illya will not sacrifice Gaby, not even to maintain Napoleon’s regard.

The door opens and closes behind him. The thud sounds like a lifeline being severed, like the disbelieving shutter of Napoleon’s eyes when he found out exactly what kind of man Illya was.

The man sits in the middle of the room, bound by his arms and legs to a chair. Other than the smear of tacky blood on his cheek and the darkening bruise purpling his left eye he appears whole and hale. Illya’s throat closes and his breath draws tight as he thinks about the briefcase in his hand.

They regard each other for a moment, agent and prisoner. Unsurprisingly, Ramirez’s man breaks first.

“I’ve already told you everything I know.” The thickly accented words are spat out at him. There is a threat behind them but it is weak and toothless. “Do you hear that, you Ruskie bastard? I don’t have anything else to tell you!”

“I think,” Illya sighs as he lays out the briefcase on the table, “that you are lying. I think there is a great deal you have left to tell me.” The familiar latch clicks open and Illya runs his fingers over the instruments.

Pliers. Such a simple thing and yet. Illya turns around, allowing the man to see what he holds. He takes no pleasure in the grey tinge the man’s skin takes, the sudden spark of fear, swiftly covered. Ramirez’s man is, if nothing else, no coward. “Really? You think that will make a difference? You think you wave a garden tool at me and I break?”

“No.” The words come easily, simpler than anything else Illya has done in months.

_This is what you are…_

“I think that I will hurt you, badly, and you will break. I think that it will take ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Maybe even twenty. But you will break.” Ramirez’s man protests, loudly, and Illya cuts him off, his voice as unforgiving as a Moscow winter. “You will break.” Illya says the words almost kindly as he steps behind the chair, twisting the man’s wrist in order to reach his fingers.

“Just tell me when to stop.”

```````

The door opens, heavier than it was fifteen minutes ago.

Illya’s hands are shaking.

Napoleon waits, lounged against a wall, deceptively casual. His face is hidden in the shadows of the room but Illya can read the taut lines of tension in his body, can feel the swift, assessing slice of his eyes as he walks into the room.

Napoleon doesn’t speak and Illya remembers the way he looked in that chair, the slump of his muscles as Illya undid the straps binding him to the device. The sluggish trickle of blood dripping from his nose and the bright stink of fear permeating the dark room. The way that the whites of Napoleon’s eyes shone in the haphazard lighting of the naked bulb.

A splash of crimson smears across his knuckles and Illya does his best to surreptitiously wipe it off.

They regard each other and underneath Napoleon’s cool gaze, Illya shatters.

“Gaby is at Ramirez’s summer estate. If we hurry we can be there within the hour.”

_What you will sacrifice and what you will not…_

Napoleon turns and walks out of the room.

Illya never thought that the American’s silence would cut him to the quick.

 

~~~~~

Predictably, Gaby is fine.

Perhaps a little more disheveled than she would prefer and her dress is a complete loss but her only injury occurred when she tripped over Napoleon’s leg on her way out the estate. The American had borne the brunt of her ire but Illya hadn’t been immune from a few scathing remarks. He tried to take them with his usual stoicism but his skin felt like it was raw and the world tilted in alarming ways as he threw himself into the back of the car. He could feel her considering gaze surveying him from the rearview mirror but he carefully didn’t look back at her, keeping his eyes on the rear window in search for a nonexistent pursuit.

Now, holed up in a new hotel room, Illya sits at the window and watches the city. The dim lights below provide the only illumination in the room, the furniture shadowy and mysterious in the darkness. Illya leans his head against the still-warm glass and breathes in the humid air. The tempest within him has finally quieted, leaving only the aches of half-remembered pain.

He doesn’t regret it, can’t regret anything, not when Gaby sleeps next door to him. The tape next to him broadcasts the soft static of her breathing, soft and deep in slumber. Illya tries to match his inhalations to Gaby’s but feels instead like he’s suffocating.

Sometimes, he misses the simplicity of the KGB.

It’s not anything that either Solo or Gaby would understand. Illya doesn’t think that he has words for it, the brittle longing which cuts deeper than nostalgia. It reminds him of nothing so much as the lurching horror of missing a step and the realization of an inevitable fall. Back before Rome, back before the balcony and the acrid stench of burning plastic, it was simple. Not necessarily good, certainly not enjoyable, but _simple,_ each action imbued with purpose and his path preordained.

Oleg would not have batted an eye at what Illya did tonight.

So why does guilt still curl around him?

A rasp at the door, the soft scrape of tumblers clicking and falling into place. To an untrained ear, the sound would go unnoticed, lost amongst the music and voices of the streets below. To Illya, it is as obvious as a doorbell. The knob turns and the door opens, allowing a slice of light into the dark room.

“Jesus Peril, turn on a light would you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya spies Napoleon’s shadowy figure reaching out for the lightswitch. Not knowing quite why, he still says, “Don’t.” It’s half-command, half-plea, though the former is not as strong as Illya would like.

 Still, Illya has a sinking suspicion that it’s the latter which stays Napoleon’s hand and keeps him silent as he walks closer to Illya. Apart from his own breathing, the soft scuff of leather shoes is all that Illya can hear. He keeps his gaze fixed on the lights in the building opposite the hotel, watching the silhouettes of strangers move around the room. Behind him, Napoleon’s presence looms, large as the electric chair in the middle of a stark, sound-proofed room.

There’s still blood underneath one of his nails. Illya wonders how long it will stay there.

It’s unnerving, this continuous silence from Napoleon. Illya never thought that he would have cause to regret quiet but the absence of inane chatter sends his skin to crawling with _wrongness,_ the same feeling which has consumed him ever since Gaby missed her check-in. Napoleon shifts and his shadow falls across Illya, throwing his hands, with their bloody nails, into darkness.

Silence. For so long it was the entirety of Illya’s life and then, with the delicacy of an atom bomb, his life imploded. For months now, he’s had Napoleon’s voice bouncing in his skull, commenting on everything from Madrid’s public transportation to the vestiges of ancient architecture in Athens. It’s infuriating and maddening and all Illya can think about is Napoleon turning silently away from him, eyes sliding over his body like he wasn’t even there.

The darkness and quiet stretch on, eternal, until all that Illya can hear is the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, until even that subsides and all that’s left are the sounds of screams echoed into a dark room, to be swallowed by silence.


End file.
